


Do I Make You Cringe?

by Theartfulldodger



Series: Drarropoly '20: Founder's Edition [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Language, Alcohol, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angry Harry, Angst, Beater Harry Potter, Casual Sex, Draco has caught the feels and just wants to help, Falmouth Falcons, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, Harry does not deal with trauma very well, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Alternating, Pining, Professional Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Seeker Draco Malfoy, Shower Sex, Sort Of, Tattooed Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27818308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theartfulldodger/pseuds/Theartfulldodger
Summary: Harry and Draco play for the Falmouth Falcons, a professional quidditch team known for its questionable sportsmanship. While they've been sleeping together casually for months, Draco wonders if Harry's means of coping with his past might prevent them from having more.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: Drarropoly '20: Founder's Edition [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025722
Comments: 17
Kudos: 72
Collections: Drarropoly '20: Founders Edition





	Do I Make You Cringe?

**Author's Note:**

> This work was made for Drarropoly 2020: Founder's Edition for the prompt, "It's after the match," which included the requirements of either Eighth Year or Professional Quidditch trope, the lovely Lee Jordan, and Harry and Draco playing for the same team.
> 
> This fic was beta'd by the wonderful @edwinya. I couldn't tame my brain after her beta assistance, so any and all mistakes are on me and me alone!

Draco feels the tickle of the snitch’s wings brush his palm as he shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his robes and saunters towards the tunnel leading off the pitch. The roar of the crowd fades to crackling static as he passes through the unpleasant sting of the security wards surrounding the team’s facilities. 

The Falmouth Falcons’ pitch-black quidditch stadium towers threateningly above ground while the teams’ training facilities branch like catacombs below. A pervasive feeling of pins and needles briefly pulses up and down his limbs but disappears as he weaves through the meandering halls towards the press room. 

Draco finds his teammates sitting along a table in front of the small gaggle of journalists who were lucky enough to get a press pass. Still on edge from the heat of the match, Draco chooses to lean against the black wall behind the row of quidditch players dressed in dark gray. The atmosphere is lighter than usual, coming off their third straight win, but still holds a characteristic unease that the bastards of the British and Irish Quidditch League can’t shake. The Falcons rarely disappoint to provide material worth a front page byline the following morning.

“Mr. Mayfield, tell us about your strategy as captain heading into this match. How did your team prepare for the Canons?” a thin, middle-aged man asks from the back. Draco is hardly listening. Instead he focuses on smoothing his fingertips over the delicate wings of the snitch attempting to escape his right pocket.

Brandon Mayfield’s lips spread into a nasty grin before he answers, voice raspy from directing his teammates in the pouring rain the last four hours, “Oh, Martin, that’s your name right? Well, Martin, we all started with a song circle this morning. Walsh here played the guitar; Harry is such a beautiful singer, you wouldn’t imagine. And then we had a lovely brunch and hoped the best team won.” 

The room is awkwardly quiet except for a few sniggers from the team, amplified by their tampered-down  _ sonorous _ charms. Mayfield waits patiently, allowing the discomfort to mellow a little longer before continuing, “Ah, didn’t fool you, did I, Martin? Smart man, you are. We slaughtered a goat on the full moon last week, for luck. But, more importantly, we all wake up every day, dedicated to the wise motto that’s been instilled in our hearts by our fearless leader.” He glances over to Coach Callahan, who rolls his eyes and brushes a dripping wet lock of gray hair from his face. 

_ “Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads!”  _ Levi Walsh cheers from the middle of the table. He and a few others pound their fists on the table, the noise echoing loudly in the enclosed space. Draco shakes his head, bored by the theatrics.

Harry Potter appears from the dark hallway to lean against the doorway, dropping his bat carelessly to the floor. He’s already discarded his robes, revealing the tight charcoal undershirt that hugs the sharp muscles of his stomach and biceps. Draco, attention captured, nearly releases the snitch. Harry grins wryly at Draco, fully cognizant of Draco’s lingering stare.

Rather than participate in the press conference, Harry elects to march in front of the table straight to the locker room, right hand raised with a crude gesture to the press as they beg for just one print-worthy word from The Savior. In the half a year since joining the Falcons, Draco’s noticed Harry’s new hobby of subverting expectations, the way his eyes light up when people flinch disapprovingly at his behavior.

Draco rolls his eyes before peeling himself off the wall to follow Harry into the locker room and releasing the snitch to annoy his teammates. He drops his own mud-covered robes on a bench and toes off his trainers before padding along the cold tile towards the showers. The water is already running, and steam billows over the stall in the back corner, a muddy kit discarded on the floor just outside the stall.

“Yes or no, Potter?” Draco asks as he finishes undressing.

Rather than a verbal answer, Draco hears the lock to the door click shut, the intoxicating feel of Harry’s magic enveloping the room. 

Draco isn’t sure when this started, this unwinding of tension after a match or casual meet-ups on pub nights. They’ve yet to discuss expectations or consequences, neither man willing or brave enough to sacrifice what they have, to talk about what they don’t. Occasionally, Draco finds his judgment clouded by thoughts of a slow morning in bed, tangled limbs on the sofa or whispered secrets in the dark. Unwilling to process their implications, he dismisses them quickly, shoving them deep in the recesses of his mind like a boggart in a closet.

Draco pulls open the shower curtain to find Harry standing under the spray of water. His tanned skin is littered with tattoos, both muggle and magical. A tally runs down the muscle of his left thigh, a phoenix smolders across his shoulder blades, and a snitch flits about aimlessly. Draco swore, one evening, that he could feel it tickle his fingertips as it traced the muscles of Harry’s abdomen. Harry is already half hard as he runs shampoo through his wild curls. 

Their tenuous history only serves to fuel the anticipation of these stolen moments. There is no need for additional suspense or growing excitement. They draw together immediately, both men chasing the high of being simultaneously the hunter and the prey. They meet with an urgent tangling of tongues and hands and teeth. It doesn’t take long for Harry to skillfully work them both over until they are gasping and spilling down the drain while Draco marks his deliciously sweaty skin with his teeth. Draco leans in to bite at Harry’s lower lip, running the tip of his tongue along the swollen flesh.

“Hey,” he says as Harry’s lip slips from between his teeth. 

“Hey, yourself,” Harry responds before arching forward to capture Draco’s lips in a slower, more explorative kiss. It leaves Draco breathless, all the same.

“This is new,” Draco says, fingertips tracing the outline of a thestral that gracefully flaps its wings on Harry’s right ribcage.

“Yeah, got it last weekend while we were on break. What do you think?” Harry asks.

Draco spreads his hand across the thestral, fitting his fingers between the lines of Harry’s ribs. “It’s beautiful.”

“You mean  _ she’s beautiful _ . I’ve named her Martha,” Harry teases as he gently pinches the skin above Draco’s left hip.

Draco only grins before reaching for the shampoo bottle and asking, “Plans this weekend?” 

Harry just shrugs. “Dinner with Ron and Hermione. Nothing exciting.”

“Are you actually going to show up this time?”

“Yes, Mother,” Harry teases playfully, but a hint of annoyance still colors his voice. 

“Hey, I don’t need that attitude,” Draco throws his hands up in mocking surrender. “Just worry about you sometimes, that’s all.”

They don’t usually pry into personal business. However, Draco can’t help but watch who Harry has become since the War and worry that he’ll wake up one day, not recognizing who he sees in the mirror. Draco’s made notes of the nervous ticks, the signs that all is not as it seems: the way Harry’s brow creases when he’s made uneasy by something he’s said, or the way he fidgets with the wings of the tattooed snitch while he listens to his teammates discuss a particularly violent play. There is a disjointedness to Harry these days, and Draco often wonders what will happen when the dissonance becomes too much.

A harsh pounding on the locker room door signals the end of the press conference. Green eyes roll in mock irritation, but playfulness can’t disguise their nearly-permanent cloud of sorrow.

“It’s not your job to worry about me,” he says as he nonchalantly waves a hand in the direction of the door. The lock responds with a click, permitting their sweaty and rain-soaked teammates to pour through the doors towards the empty stalls. 

Draco finishes rinsing the shampoo down the drain, the soap leaving his hair a bit stringy under his fingertips. With a wink, Potter quickly pushes Draco out of the stall into the cold, sans clothing or towel. Most of his teammates shake their heads or roll their eyes but Walsh whistles through his fingers from across the room.

“It’s a good fucking thing you won us the game today, Malfoy. Now get the fuck out of here--no one wants to see that,” he says from above the walls of his stall.

“If no one wants to see it, what are you whistling for, Walsh?” Draco asks, entering an empty shower, the cool water a shock after the scalding heat of the stall he’d left behind. He feels the sharp pinch of a stinging hex aimed squarely at his bum, and turns to eye Potter leaving the showers, the inky thestral pruning herself just over the towel hung low on Harry’s hips.

* * *

Harry finds himself outside Ron and Hermione’s cottage that Sunday, thirty minutes late to dinner and clothes musty with cigarette smoke. The stress of the dinner made his fingers itch for a cigarette until he finally surrendered that afternoon. He tried not to make it a habit; Merlin knows how many lectures he’s gotten about it shortening his career or affecting his ability to play. But sometimes the instant gratification was too much of a draw. The thick smoke weaving between the unruly curls of his hair was a strange comfort when his anxiety was high. 

He lets himself in without bothering to knock and inhales the smell of Sunday roast deep into his lungs. His stomach growls to remind him that chain smoking provides no nutritional value.

“Harry, is that you?” Hermione calls from the kitchen.

“Yup, ‘Mione, I’m here,” he replies, following the scent of dinner into the Weasley kitchen. 

It’s small and cozy, perfectly at ease with the image he’d conjured years ago for his friends. Rose sits in a high chair at the kitchen table, hands and face covered in an orange mush that matches the vibrant color of her hair. The mush spatters on the floor as she smacks the table in delight at Harry’s appearance in the doorway. Hermione turns to smile at Harry from her seat next to Rose.

“Hey, Harry, everything all right? You’re a bit late,” she says, pulling out her wand and aiming a rather intense  _ scourgify _ at Rose’s carrot-covered bib before using it to wipe the baby’s face. 

“Oh, Hermione, he’s fine,” Ron says as he sips a spoonful of broth from the pot of roast and vegetables. “Hey, Harry, how’s it going, mate? Beer?”

“Hi, Ron,” Harry says. He takes a seat across from Rose at the table after ruffling the toddler’s hair. “Sure, if you’ve got something good. And I’m fine, can’t complain. Kicked the Canons’ sorry arses Friday. Hope you weren’t too disappointed about that… Er, I mean butts. Kicked their sorry butts,” he flounders under Hermione’s stern gaze. 

“Mate, I couldn’t even be upset. When you and Walsh traded that bludger back and forth before you aimed it at that rookie chaser… Bloody brilliant, my friend,” Ron admits as he plates their dinner. He sends the dishes floating over to the table while he grabs a stout from the refrigerator for Harry. Hermione had worked diligently over their first few months in the cottage, seamlessly melding wizarding- and muggle-living so her parents felt more at home when they visited.

“Brilliant that she’ll be out for two games after requiring five mended bones?” Hermione asks, wiping the carrot from Rose’s hands.

“She’ll be fine. All part of the game, right Harry?”

Harry shrugs apologetically towards Hermione, unable to argue against Ron’s point. “That’s what beaters are there for, ‘Mione. Don’t blame me for doing my job.”

The trio converses pleasantly while they enjoy their meal. Rose squeals as Harry scoops up some potato, so he blows on it a few times before letting her nibble at the spoonful. She thanks him by clumsily clapping her hands and Hermione watches with a smile from across the table.

“You’re so good with her, Harry. She just adores you,” she says.

“Well, can’t disappoint my Rosie, now can I?”

A moment of uneasy silence preempts a heavy sigh from Hermione. She looks towards Harry with that typical-Hermione gaze that he knows is meant to be supportive, but only makes him feel like he’s suffocating.

“Harry, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Harry sighs, already aware of where the conversation is heading. “Can we not do this today, please?”

Hermione’s eyes narrow and she takes a sip of her water, a pause to gather her thoughts. “Harry, I don’t know when else we can ‘do this,’ as you put it. You never come over anymore. We’ve already put off ‘doing this’ at every dinner you’ve deigned to show up for the last three months.” 

“Maybe it’s because there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Hey, Harry,” Ron interjects. “She’s just worried about you. We both are. Just haven’t quite been yourself lately.”

“Haven’t I? Who  _ have _ I been? I wasn’t aware I’d been possessed, although that’s not exactly new for me. Some luck I’ve got,” Harry seethes, discarding his spoon and crossing his arms tightly. He can feel an angry heat flood his chest, spreading like wildfire across his neck and shoulders.

“I don’t know who the hell you’ve been, but it sure isn’t the Harry that I know,” Hermione’s volume raises with her mounting frustration. She covers Rose’s ears before continuing, “Our Harry wouldn’t tell a reporter to go fuck themselves after a match, and he definitely wouldn’t have taken the switch to beater so Draco Sodding Malfoy could take his spot as seeker. Not to mention sleep with him, of all people, Merlin knows why. Our Harry would’ve-”

“Done whatever the fuck anyone asked him to do, no short of giving his own goddamn life? Proceeded unquestioningly towards Auror training, two-point-five children and a future that everyone else chose for him? For Merlin’s fucking sake, it’s always ‘ _our_ _Harry_ doesn’t act this way,’ ‘ _our Harry_ wouldn’t do these things.’ Well, what about _actual Harry_? Hm? Does no one give a damn what he thinks?” 

Rose starts to cry, disturbed by the noise despite Hermione’s shielding. Ron gets up to lift his daughter from her chair and rocks her as she clings to his shoulder. Hermione sits, hunched over the table with her face in her hands.

“I’ve got somewhere to be,” Harry spits as he rises from the table and heads towards the door.

He stands outside, halfway to the street, cigarette loosely dangling from his lips and fingers trembling as he fumbles with a lighter. It’s cool out, the early autumn air less forgiving than usual. He feels Ron’s presence before he hears his heavy footsteps crunch the leaves that litter the cobblestone pathway leading from the front door. He stands silently a few feet behind Harry, hands in his pockets and breath clouding the air in front of him.

Harry gazes over his shoulder and looks at Ron, the bubbling rage already beginning to fade. A heavy guilt settles in its place as he sees the crestfallen expression on his best friend’s face. 

“Ron…” He starts, but he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“It’s alright, mate. We’re here for you, when you need us. Don’t forget that, okay?” 

“I know, Ron. I won’t.” Harry turns back to face the quiet country street. He lets the unlit cigarette fall from his lips and apparates without a goodbye.

Draco Malfoy answers the door wearing wine-red pajamas, hair unkempt, looking like he’d just dragged himself out of bed. A faint blush tints the tops of his cheeks, the smooth skin of his neck. Harry finds this unusually disheveled Draco amusing, charming even, and feels a cheeky grin pull at the corners of his lips. Draco asks no questions as he opens the door wide to let Harry in.

* * *

“That was bloody brilliant, what a fucking grown-man move,” Lee says around a vinegar-soaked chip a few weeks later. Most of the team is gathered at the local dive to celebrate their win, in addition to Lee Jordan, who’s been announcing the Falcons’ games for about a year now. The Chariot is cramped, with beer-soaked carpet and sticky bar stools. The dark room is lit largely from the shimmering neon signs hanging about the walls. A particularly large one, an upside down chariot hanging in the front window, casts a slight golden glow across the room.

Malfoy downs his shot of vodka and plops the empty glass on the bartop. “I agree, I am brilliant,” he admits. 

“Not you, wanker. Harry Fucking Potter, capital ‘f,’” Lee laughs before taking another chip off Draco’s plate. 

Draco reminisces briefly on the play in question, recalling the feel of the broom, slick with rain under his hands. The Kestrels’ seeker had rapidly shifted her course straight upward, having caught sight of the snitch. Draco had trailed after her, gaining speed but not fast enough. He’d heard the whistle of the bludger hurtle past his left ear before it crashed violently into the girl ahead of him. He’d just barely dodged her body as she fell, spinning towards the earth. 

The snitch had been slippery in his fingers as he’d looked down at Harry, eyes vibrant, even from a distance. Harry just sat on his broom, casually swinging his bat as he’d mouthed, ‘You’re welcome.’ 

Reassigning Harry Potter as a beater when Draco joined the Falcons six months ago had been one of the most controversial moves in the history of the League, but Coach Callahan didn’t care what the papers said about him. He wanted to win--they all did--and that meant acknowledging that Harry no longer had the build for a seeker in the professional realm. The muscle mass he’d put on during training was better suited for the aggressive playing style of a beater rather than the quick and lithe movements required of a seeker. When Harry was presented with the option of switching positions, he took no convincing, thrilled with the idea of doing the unexpected.

Now, Harry leans against a table in the corner of the bar, those muscles outlined in tight, dark jeans. The first few buttons of his forest green shirt are undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He chats with Mayfield and Brewer, gesturing wildly with his hands. Draco watches, entranced by Harry’s wide smile when he laughs and the way he chews on his lip before taking a sip of his beer.

Lee clears his throat before saying, “Excuse me, I’m still here, git. What’s going on between you two, anyway?” He starts to play with the end of a dreadlock that falls over his shoulder.

“Fuck if I know,” Draco answers, shaking his head. “My time in therapy did not cover how to interpret the motivations of the Boy Who Lived.” 

They say alcohol lowers inhibitions and Draco is certainly no exception to the rule. He finds it exhilarating, the inability to anticipate what secrets may spill from his lips. Lee’s been the receiver of quite a few, solidifying an odd but comfortable friendship over the last several months. 

Lee laughs aggressively. “I don’t believe that for a damn second. I think that’s all you had time to talk about,” he says, sloppily slurring his consonants.

“Go for water this next round, Jordan. I’ve got to go,” Draco says as he slides off the barstool.

“Hey,” Lee clumsily wraps vinegar-scented fingers around Draco’s wrist. “Really, though, you two--you’re good together. I see it at the bars, I see it on the field. I don’t know what lies you’re telling yourselves, but listen, on the pitch, he can’t take his eyes off of you,” he says before dropping Draco’s arm.

Draco turns to watch Harry again, his face lit with the neon green of the Ogden’s sign hanging on the wall to his left.

In that moment of intoxicated bliss, Draco ponders what Lee Jordan has drunkenly revealed to him. Draco cracks open the closet door to the depths of his mind, takes a peek at that damn boggart and considers the possibility of letting it out. He’s caught glimpses of what domestication with Harry Potter would look like, in their playful bickering or when Draco lingers just a tad too long at Harry’s flat. 

Draco examines how they’ve both come to intimately know each other’s ugliness, accepting the other for all their nasty flaws without hesitation. Draco has seen the extent of Harry’s anger and frustration, allowed his hands to smooth over the scars that he caused, and has watched him fight rabidly against a future he didn’t choose. Harry dismissed Draco’s past in the span of a single conversation last spring and traced his tongue across the inky black mess on Draco’s forearm hours later. 

He takes a deep breath and slinks towards Harry, who now stands alone, sipping at his beer. He’s not entirely sure of his intention as he approaches the table, but the alcohol running pleasantly through his bloodstream makes him leave his judgment behind with Lee at the bar.

“Potter,” he says in greeting, leaning on the table across from him.

Draco can see the faint lines that form at the corners of Potter’s eyes when he smiles. He has a sudden urge to trace those lines with his fingertips. He picks up the lager on the table and takes a sip instead.

“Malfoy, can I help you?”

Draco chuckles, “Oh, I think you can.”

Harry sighs before replying, “You are impossibly needy, sometimes, you know that?” Draco simply grins, pleased with his victory.

Draco hears someone shout, “Ow, ow!” behind him as Harry places a warm hand at his back to push him gently towards the door. Draco doesn’t bother to look back.

Winter is fully upon them, the icy air unforgiving and harsh as they stumble down the quiet streets towards Draco’s flat. Draco realizes he’s left his jacket behind, but can’t be bothered to care as he weaves his arms around Harry’s waist to slip a hand under his shirt, his skin white hot against Draco’s cold fingers. He loves that about Harry: he always runs hot. Harry barely flinches at the cool touch and lets Draco slide his other hand up under the hem without complaint. Harry slips his own hand into the back pocket of Draco’s jeans. 

They don’t bother to turn on the lights when they trip through the door to Draco’s flat, both familiar enough with the layout to navigate in the pitch black. Harry’s mouth is immediately on Draco’s neck as Draco’s hands explore more liberally. He gives the muscles of Harry’s arse an aggressive squeeze and feels Potter’s gasp of air heat his collarbone. 

They shed clothing as they meander down the dark hallway, lips dancing over each newly exposed inch of skin. They are both down to their pants by the time Harry steers Draco towards the bed, trailing open mouthed, sloppy kisses down his chest. He pays special attention to a particularly long scar that travels the length of Draco’s ribcage, running his tongue along the ugly raised ridge. 

As Draco relishes the feeling of Harry’s hands and lips on his body, he is assaulted with images of those hands wrapping around his waist in the mornings, those lips sipping a cup of coffee on a lazy Sunday in bed. 

Harry takes him in his mouth as Draco chokes on a sudden sense of overwhelm. He realizes two congruent truths at that very moment. One: this paralyzing flood of emotion cannot be fully attributed to Harry’s ministrations. And two: that he is well and truly fucked. 

The boggart’s out of the closet, and he’s not sure he can bring himself to force it back in.

Even in the low light of the bedroom, vivid green eyes pin him down, a look of suspicion clouding their expression. Draco sees the moment Harry shakes it off before he climbs up Draco’s body to capture his lips in a searing kiss.

* * *

What feels like hours later, Draco lays on his back next to Harry, staring at the ceiling as he catches his breath, the fuzziness of the alcohol long gone. Instead, those intoxicating images rush to the forefront of Draco’s mind, so vivid they feel like memories. A flush of anxiety spreads over his chest, blurring the lines of fantasy and reality. 

“So, do you want to order some takeaway? I could use a bite to eat,” Draco asks, feeling wildy out of control of his own speech.

“Er, I don’t know, Malfoy. I should probably go,” Harry says, crawling out from under the sheet to search for his pants.

“Stay.” Draco hears the word slip quietly from his tongue.

Harry looks back to Draco and his eyebrows disappear behind his fringe, clearly unsure how to respond. He pauses a moment before asking, “Stay?”

Draco nods just once, pats the dip in the mattress, and gives Harry permission one more time. “Stay.”

The initial stretch of silence that follows Harry climbing back under the sheet, stark naked, is so horrifyingly uncomfortable it makes Draco want to shove him back out of bed. They both lay stiffly in the dark, paralyzed by the lack of knowledge for how to proceed. This is clearly a mistake, Draco thinks, as he rapidly searches his mind for something to say.

The darkness begins to feel oppressive when he hears Harry sigh loudly to his left before saying, “So… what are we doing, Malfoy?”

An internal panic wrenches inside Draco’s chest as he flounders, unsure what to do, unsure how to answer.

“Malfoy, if we’re doing what I think we’re doing, it’s a bad idea. Believe me. You don’t want this.”

“And how do you know what I want?” Draco asks, finding his words.

“Because I know you, Draco. And if you know me half as well, you know that this won’t work. This works now because there’s no pressure to be anything we aren’t.”

Draco just turns to look at Harry, observes the outline of his silhouette in the moonlight that sneaks in through the window. He can’t help but relax as he observes the rise and fall of Harry’s chest. The snitch flies across his bare skin, just visible in the dark. Draco wants to wrap him in his arms, to whisper that he’s wrong. That this would work because of who they are, not despite it. That there’s no one else he could imagine laying next to, this raw and exposed, and somehow still feeling safe. But he doesn’t. His arms are too heavy and his lips can’t form the words.

Instead, he hears himself borrow Lee’s words, “You can lie to yourself all you want, but if you know me so well, you know I usually get what I want.”

Harry turns to face Draco. Purple shadows paint the translucent skin beneath his eyes. “What do you want, Draco?”

_ I want you,  _ Draco thinks.  _ I want you in the mornings. I want your good days and I want your wretched moods. I want to peel down those barricades you’ve built until there’s nothing left. _

Instead, he says, “I don’t want to pressure you to be what you’re not. We can be good together. I’ve not forgotten what it’s like to look in the mirror and be horrified at your own reflection. But I see  _ you _ , Harry Potter. I see you underneath all of this anger and hurt and bitterness. And I see us, what we could be.”

Draco’s lungs ache as he waits, giving Harry some space for his thoughts. Eventually, Harry whispers, “I’m so tired, Draco.”

“I know. Trust me, I know. Let me help, Harry. Please.” The words are painful in his throat. He slides his hand along the sheets and wraps his little finger around Harry’s. “Just let me help you.”

Harry looks to Draco, eyes haunted and uncertain, before breathing into the shadows, “Where would we even go from here?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Come say 'hello' on [Tumblr](https://graymatters.tumblr.com/).


End file.
